Read Online Us and Uncle Fraud by Lois Lowry - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lois Lowry
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"When you have a key, it isn't breaking into."
"Listen to me, will you? I'm trying to tell you that you should
think
before you do stuff like that. Think about what could happen if you got caught. I don't want you dragging the name of this family through the mud."
I giggled, picturing the letters that spelled Cunningham, at the end of a string, being dragged
down the street through puddles and dirt. Tom glared at me.
"Are you going to tell on us?" Marcus asked.
"Of course I'm not. I just wanted to have a talk with you, that's all."
"You can't tell us what to do, Tom," I said belligerently. "You're not Father. And you're only fourteen."
"I know that. And I've done a lot of stupid stuff, too. But I don't go around breaking into people's houses." Tom stood up. "Well, anyway, I just wanted to warn you. If you end up in jail, don't say I didn't warn you."
Dismissed, Marcus and I left Tom's room and went to mine, where we closed the door, fell onto my bed, and laughed. "He never even guessed that Claude knew, too!" I said with pleasure.
Marcus imitated Tom's serious voice: "I don't want you dragging the name of this familyâ"
"THROUGH THE MUD!" I shrieked and fell over again, laughing.
"You know what Tom is?" Marcus whispered.
"What?"
He lowered his voice even more, until I could barely hear him. "A turd," he said with furtive glee.
I pounded my fists on the bed with delight. We repeated the wonderful, forbidden word over and over again, roaring with laughter until our stomachs ached, muffling our mouths with the pillows
from my bed, until Mother called to tell us that Father was home and it was time to wash our hands for dinner.
In the evening, I did my homework half-heartedly, sitting at the table under my bedroom window. Outside, it was beginning to rain: first a light spring drizzle, then increasing in force until it pelted the house fiercely. Mother came upstairs to check the windows.
"Did you put your bike in the shed?" she asked Tom.
"Of course. I always put my bike away."
I could hear Marcus puttering in his room next to mine. "'Of course,'" I heard him mimic Tom in a low, exaggerated voice, "'I
always
put my bike away.'"
"Well," Mother said, sticking her head into my doorway, "I left the sheets on the clothesline. I guess there's no point in going out to get them now."
"If it's still pouring in the morning, do you think Father will give us a ride to school?" I asked her.
"I suppose so," she said. "The radio says it isn't going to let up. I hope it doesn't ruin the forsythia." She came over to my window and looked out, but the bright forsythia bush beside the driveway was invisible through the driving rainstorm.
"Mother," I asked, pushing my geography book aside. I unfolded Claude's note again. "Do you think it's true that Claude is crazy, like Tom said?"
She sighed. "Oh, Louise, who knows what 'crazy' means? He's
different
, certainly. He always has been."
"What was he like when he was a kid?"
She sat down on my bed. "Well, he was different then, too. He's the only child I've ever known who created whole worlds for himself. He always had entire cities built out of blocksâor later, when he was older, out of Erector setsâin his room."
"All kids do that. Marcus does."
"Yes, butâwell, this was different. His cities and worlds became very real to him. Sometimes it was as if he lived in those worlds, instead of the real one."
"I don't understand what you mean."
"Once, out in our back yard, he built a tree house. It was the most wonderful tree house, with little windows and a ladder that he could pull up after he was inside so that no one else could climb it. Sometimes he slept out there."
"Did he let you play in it? Or was he selfish, like Marcus?"
She smiled. "Marcus isn't selfish, Louise. He's just a normal boy. Claude was a lot like Marcus in some ways: cheerful and fun. He always had wonderful ideas, but sometimes they were so complicated, and sometimes he took them so
"Listen to me, will you? I'm trying to tell you that you should
think
before you do stuff like that. Think about what could happen if you got caught. I don't want you dragging the name of this family through the mud."
I giggled, picturing the letters that spelled Cunningham, at the end of a string, being dragged
down the street through puddles and dirt. Tom glared at me.
"Are you going to tell on us?" Marcus asked.
"Of course I'm not. I just wanted to have a talk with you, that's all."
"You can't tell us what to do, Tom," I said belligerently. "You're not Father. And you're only fourteen."
"I know that. And I've done a lot of stupid stuff, too. But I don't go around breaking into people's houses." Tom stood up. "Well, anyway, I just wanted to warn you. If you end up in jail, don't say I didn't warn you."
Dismissed, Marcus and I left Tom's room and went to mine, where we closed the door, fell onto my bed, and laughed. "He never even guessed that Claude knew, too!" I said with pleasure.
Marcus imitated Tom's serious voice: "I don't want you dragging the name of this familyâ"
"THROUGH THE MUD!" I shrieked and fell over again, laughing.
"You know what Tom is?" Marcus whispered.
"What?"
He lowered his voice even more, until I could barely hear him. "A turd," he said with furtive glee.
I pounded my fists on the bed with delight. We repeated the wonderful, forbidden word over and over again, roaring with laughter until our stomachs ached, muffling our mouths with the pillows
from my bed, until Mother called to tell us that Father was home and it was time to wash our hands for dinner.
In the evening, I did my homework half-heartedly, sitting at the table under my bedroom window. Outside, it was beginning to rain: first a light spring drizzle, then increasing in force until it pelted the house fiercely. Mother came upstairs to check the windows.
"Did you put your bike in the shed?" she asked Tom.
"Of course. I always put my bike away."
I could hear Marcus puttering in his room next to mine. "'Of course,'" I heard him mimic Tom in a low, exaggerated voice, "'I
always
put my bike away.'"
"Well," Mother said, sticking her head into my doorway, "I left the sheets on the clothesline. I guess there's no point in going out to get them now."
"If it's still pouring in the morning, do you think Father will give us a ride to school?" I asked her.
"I suppose so," she said. "The radio says it isn't going to let up. I hope it doesn't ruin the forsythia." She came over to my window and looked out, but the bright forsythia bush beside the driveway was invisible through the driving rainstorm.
"Mother," I asked, pushing my geography book aside. I unfolded Claude's note again. "Do you think it's true that Claude is crazy, like Tom said?"
She sighed. "Oh, Louise, who knows what 'crazy' means? He's
different
, certainly. He always has been."
"What was he like when he was a kid?"
She sat down on my bed. "Well, he was different then, too. He's the only child I've ever known who created whole worlds for himself. He always had entire cities built out of blocksâor later, when he was older, out of Erector setsâin his room."
"All kids do that. Marcus does."
"Yes, butâwell, this was different. His cities and worlds became very real to him. Sometimes it was as if he lived in those worlds, instead of the real one."
"I don't understand what you mean."
"Once, out in our back yard, he built a tree house. It was the most wonderful tree house, with little windows and a ladder that he could pull up after he was inside so that no one else could climb it. Sometimes he slept out there."
"Did he let you play in it? Or was he selfish, like Marcus?"
She smiled. "Marcus isn't selfish, Louise. He's just a normal boy. Claude was a lot like Marcus in some ways: cheerful and fun. He always had wonderful ideas, but sometimes they were so complicated, and sometimes he took them so
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